


With Bloody Knuckles (I'd Follow You Anywhere)

by profanesouls



Series: Rebel Yell [3]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Minor Violence, Multiple Orgasms, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26717938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profanesouls/pseuds/profanesouls
Summary: Forged together, their bodies connected; a bond shaped from fire and iron. A connection so deep, so rich — their fates intertwined from the beginning. Mickey’s life had been taken away from her; she’d been left with nothing but a fierce bitterness rotting her from the inside out. Nines had seen it; seen the brutality she was capable of, the cold detachment that threatened to keep her from everything and everyone.He replaced that coldness with a warmth, a well-placed spark that threatened to set her ablaze. The walls she carefully constructed for herself were torn down; there was no mask to hide behind, no façade to cling to.Just him, her, and this unbreakable bond that burned as hot as the sun.
Relationships: Nines Rodriguez/Original Character(s), Nines Rodriguez/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Rebel Yell [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902790
Comments: 11
Kudos: 28





	1. chapter 1

Griffith Park was burning. 

Mickey had smelled the smoke, but thought nothing of it. A trap, Nines had said, and she scoffed. They could outrun a fire, Mickey thought; just head back down to the gondola before the flames caught up to them. Nines tried to tell her, tried to explain the exact amount of danger they were in. 

She didn’t believe him. Now, she desperately wished she had. 

One second, he was there, his hands on her shoulders, his icy gaze pleading, trying to get her to listen. The next, he was violently torn away, his hands ripped away by the jaws of the werewolf. Before Mickey could blink, think, do anything, he was gone. Tossed over the cliffside like he was nothing, the werewolf close behind. 

Mickey was running. 

She was running faster than she ever thought was possible. She could hear the thing, the werewolf, the monster, snapping at her heels. Her shoulder collided with the observatory’s door, splinters of wood snapping free from the impact. Razor-sharp claws dug into the floor, the beast trying to pull its massive body through. Mickey didn’t look back to see if it was following her. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but survive. Her Beast was screaming, howling; she could feel its fangs clawing at her chest. 

A scream erupted from her throat as the wall next to her exploded in a cascade of plaster. She skidded to a stop, her knees sliding against the linoleum as she tried to duck out of the way. The werewolf shoved its maw through the hole, its jaw snapping, its fangs catching bits of plaster and wood. Mickey’s own claws extended from her hands, her Beast calling on the Blood to defend herself. She struck the werewolf’s snout and it howled, the noise causing a shiver of primal fear to race down her spine. 

The gondola wouldn’t arrive for another minute. 

Scrambling away, Mickey launched to her feet, careening down the hall. Her eyes found the exit and she raced toward it. When she was outside again, the smoke burned her lungs, but she ignored it. Between the fire and the werewolf, the Beast howled in her mind again. Mickey gritted her teeth and ran toward an adjacent building; it was small and she knew it wouldn’t do anything to protect her from the werewolf that was hot on her trail, but it was better than being out in the open. 

As she shoved her way inside, she locked the door, and braced her back against it. She survived Sabbat packs, cops, Russian mobsters, vampire hunters, and fucking _gargoyle_ , there was no way she was dying here.

She needed to think. She needed a plan. She needed – 

Wait. As Mickey’s eyes looked over the room, she noticed a power box. She assumed it powered up the whole observatory, but she wouldn’t know until she turned it on. A plan began to form in Mickey’s mind. It was stupid, it was reckless, but it was something. Once she turned the power on, she was going to have to run, faster than before, and hope to God the werewolf would follow. 

Taking a breath she didn’t need, Mickey turned the switch on and ran like Hell. 

The observatory lit up, just like she thought it would. As soon as she exited the smaller building, Mickey ran back through the door she came. She turned the corner, finding herself in the observatory’s lobby. She didn’t allow herself time to wait as she bounded up the steps toward the main platform. 

The Blood sang in her ears as she propelled herself forward, her hand fumbling with the switch to open the large observatory doors. If her heart could still beat, it’d be pounding wildly in her chest. The noise of the doors opening must’ve caught the attention of the werewolf, just like Mickey hoped it would, because she heard a howl, followed by its charging footsteps. 

With a guttural snarl, the werewolf launched itself upward. Mickey could see the hunger and bloodlust in its eyes as it pounced, claws extended, jaw snapping. 

_Got you, you motherfucker_. 

As the werewolf flew through the air, Mickey flipped the switch, and the observatory doors began to close. 

By the time the werewolf landed, its body was caught between the heavy doors. Its ribs snapped under the impact; its body crushed as the doors closed shut. With a low whine and a shuddering breath, it slumped to the floor. 

With the werewolf threat taken care of, Mickey felt her body slump to the floor. Her chest heaved with unnecessary breath, her stomach trying to empty its nonexistent contents. With her mind no longer focused purely on survival, the weight of what just happened settled in on her shoulders. 

Nines was gone. 

A feral scream erupted from Mickey’s throat, her vocal cords nearly tearing in protest. Her fists pounded against the floor, but even the pain exploding from her knuckles wasn’t enough to anchor her back to the present. Her grief was an ugly thing; it was bloody, it was primal, it was a volatile mix of righteous fury and unadulterated sorrow. 

She was going to kill LaCroix. She was going to tear his unbeating heart out of his chest and burn Venture Tower to the ground. 

First, she was going to need to live to see the next sundown. 

Mickey’s mind was clouded in a fog as she made her way back outside and toward the gondola. She didn’t register the blood-tears that stained her cheeks, didn’t register the ache in her knuckles or the sharp pain in her ribs. When the gondola doors closed and she began her descent, Mickey didn’t recognize her reflection in the windows. 

It felt like an eternity before she made it to the parking lot, but when she got there, she saw someone she didn’t expect to see. 

“Come on, kid! Get in the car! The sun’ll be up, we gotta get the Hell outta here!” Smiling Jack said, opening up the passenger side door. Mickey didn’t ask how he knew she was here, didn’t protest, didn’t say anything, but she did what he said and got in. 

The drive to Santa Monica was quick and silent. By the time Jack got Mickey to her apartment, it was nearly sunrise. She barely had enough energy to make sure the curtains were shut before she collapsed on her bed. The blackness of day-sleep swallowed her and as the sun rose on Los Angeles, Mickey was dead to the world. 

The following night when Mickey awoke, Jack was still at her apartment. Hunger gnawed in her gut, ever present. She was still wearing the clothes she was in yesterday; the scent of smoke and blood clung to her like a macabre perfume. As Mickey wiped her eyes, her fingers smudged the dried blood that lingered there. 

Jack quickly noticed that Mickey was awake and tossed a blood bag to her before speaking, “Wake up, kiddo, and look alive. You better get on your feet and be ready to move.” 

Mickey caught the blood bag and tore into it, gulping down mouthfuls of blood. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying, but it calmed the Beast somewhat. She shrugged out of her jacket, tossing it into the corner. The walls of her haven felt too restricting, too familiar to a prison cell. She didn’t use this haven much; she preferred her office downtown. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You’re lucky I got to you first. Anyone else and you’d be a pile of cinders right now.” 

Mickey frowned, moving around Jack to see if she had any extra clothes stashed away here, “What are you talkin’ about?” 

“Get ready to run. Take everything you need. You’re never coming back here,” Jack said, continuing to dodge her questions. 

“What happened?” 

“LaCroix put out the word — he says you’re in league with the Kuei-jin, Ming-Xiao’s puppet, that you’re the one who set up Nines for her. See, he’s figured it all out, and now your death is a big bullet point in his new unity campaign. There’s a Blood Hunt on you,” Jack explained. 

White-hot anger flared in Mickey’s gut. Her hands curled into fists and she felt her fangs extend. It made sense, of course. She was always just a pawn in LaCroix’s games, ever since he decided to spare her life. Her days were numbered, she knew that, but this wasn’t about just surviving another night. 

Now, this was about revenge. 

“ _I’m_ in league with the Kuei-jin?” Mickey’s voice rumbled like thunder.

“He had to turn things around on you real quick since you found out about his deal with Ming-Xiao. This is his Plan B. Plan A was to kill you and Nines in Griffith Park. Now LaCroix is playing the victim. The way he tells it is you were his own childe, he trusted you with so much… and you took full advantage, sold out to the Kuei-jin and cost the people their hero. They’re saying Nines is dead and you killed him.” 

A storm of emotions raged in Mickey’s eyes, each one like a flash of lightning. Anguish, fury, hatred, regret. She felt like a coward, unable to say the words out loud. 

_Nines was dead_. 

So many things left unsaid between them. Things Mickey was too cowardly to say. Because that’s what she did. She kept people at arm’s length so she wouldn’t get hurt; kept her walls up so high. Nines was different, though. He got closer than an arm’s length. He managed to get Mickey’s walls down, brick by brick. She still remembered that night in her office, the feeling of his lips on hers, a promise of more. 

Mickey turned away from Jack so he couldn’t see her face or the stubborn tears that stung her eyes. 

“Look, I’m here to help you — _again_ — but, dammit, it’s time!” 

“Time for what?” 

“Time to make a choice.” 

Mickey pinched the bridge of her nose. She had a thousand questions and no answers, “What the fuck am I supposed to do?” 

“You’re gonna have to stay off the streets and stay on the move, ‘cause it’s open season on your ass. Vampires are gonna be bussin’ in from Sacramento to join in on this Hunt. You need backing, kiddo. You need the protection of one of the factions. Friends are the last thing you wanna be without right now, but you gotta get outta here.” 

Mickey scoffed a humorless laugh, “You make it sound so easy.” 

“I got a guy who can get’cha where you need to go. Interesting guy, you’ll like him, but this place is gonna be watched. He’s across Santa Monica, by the junkyard. Get there and he’ll get you outta town.” 

She arched a brow, but didn’t ask; she wasn’t about to object to the help Jack was willing to give. She immediately began to pack up what little belongings she had here, but as she moved, Jack caught her elbow. 

“In case we don’t see each other again, nice known’ ya, kiddo. Give ‘em hell; they deserve it.” 

A slow, predatory smile tugged at the corners of Mickey’s mouth, “You’re goddamn right they do.”

* * *

Mickey cut a destructive path across Santa Monica. With stealth on her side, she managed to stay hidden for the first part of the journey, but got spotted as she tried to cut through the parking garage. She didn’t know the guy, but he was fast, managed to get a few hits in, but Mickey had the advantage of anger. Her claws cut through him easily, and she left his body for the sun. 

She got jumped again right outside the diner, a Nosferatu appearing out of nowhere. She called on the power of the Blood, a swarm of bats distracting the vampire long enough for Mickey to escape. By the time she reached the cab, her Hunger was back in full force. The taxi driver pulled out of Santa Monica quickly and headed toward the highway. 

Jack said she needed protection, needed friends. She wasn’t going back to LaCroix, that was for damn sure. When she saw him again, he was going to be a pile of ashes. There was only one place Mickey knew she could go, but she wondered if she had the strength to face them.

She wondered if Damsel would try to kill her the minute she walked through the door. 

The taxi driver must’ve sensed her emotional turmoil. After driving in silence for a while, he spoke up, “You work for Prince LaCroix, don’t you?” 

Mickey’s upper lip curled back in a sneer before she could stop herself, “Fuck no. LaCroix’s not getting anything out of me anymore. I’m done being his little puppet.” 

“You are… an Anarch, then? A curious experiment, the Anarchs. They have lost many battles and more leaders — their rebellion has already failed in the eyes of many. Do you feel their notions of freedom have any real possibility?” 

_Jesus, who the hell was this guy?_

Mickey took a moment to answer. “Fuck right, I do. As long as a few believe, it’ll remain a possibility.” 

Before Mickey found a place among the Anarchs, she had no purpose. She was aimless, just like she was in life; just trying to survive each night. The Anarchs gave her something to believe in. Gave her a chance to do something good. The Anarchs helped mold her into a person she could actually be proud of. Her past was muddy, she knew that. She couldn’t change the shitty things she’d done, but she could at least make up for her mistakes now. 

“If the Anarchs managed to recapture this city, it would not be long before someone challenged them for it. Conflict is always an eventuality in their life. Could you spend an eternity this way?” 

If Mickey had been asked this question months ago, she probably would have said no. She would have run at the first opportunity, put as much distance between Los Angeles and herself, but then things got complicated. She still had time to run, she mused, but that little voice in her head that always seemed to whisper flight over flight was silent. 

She was staying. 

“Absolutely,” Mickey said. Her voice echoed with an unfamiliar resolution. The conviction felt strange on her tongue, but not in a bad way, “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides,” she paused, that predatory grin tugging at her lips once again, a flash of her fangs illuminated by the street lights, “conflict’s always been in my nature.” 

It was quiet for a moment as the taxi driver mulled over Mickey’s words. There was something about him Mickey couldn’t place. She was almost positive he’d driven her around LA before. His sunglasses made it impossible to get a good read on him. She wondered how he knew so much; how he knew Jack. Was he Kindred, too? Mickey was pulled out of her thoughts as he spoke again.

“The Anarchs have lost less than is thought. I hear there is one left who may be able to revitalize the movement. Maybe, though, it is just a rumor.” 

Mickey’s eyes went wide. She didn’t dare let herself hope; didn’t dare set herself up for disappointment or to get hurt again. She already grieved once; she didn’t want to do it again. However, once a small spark of hope was ignited, it was hard to get it extinguished once it caught fire. Mickey clenched her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. 

“Who?” 

“I know where you might find them, but you would have to be ready to commit to the Anarchs’ fight for this city. I could just as easily take you downtown to see LaCroix.” 

Mickey’s eyes drifted outside, the highway flashing by in a continuous blur. She thought back to last night, how she felt when Nines was torn away from her. It felt like someone carved a hole in her chest, a void of murderous fury filling its place. She wanted to march down to Venture Tower and tear LaCroix apart, slowly, painfully, limb from limb. Her anger was amplified by the Beast, who was delighted at the idea of such primal destruction.

It wasn’t just about killing LaCroix, though. This was a war, now; a battle to free Los Angeles from those who wanted to control it. She’d been a pawn in someone else’s game for far too long. She was ready to finally stand for something.

It wasn’t just about revenge, either. The loss of Nines made her realize something. Something she was too afraid to admit to herself before. She loved him. Christ help her, she loved him, and if what this taxi driver was saying was true then —

_ One step at a time, Mickey. _

“No,” she finally said, her gaze returning to meet the driver’s in the mirror, “Take me to your contact.” 

“If you share the Anarchs’ passion and would share the burden of such a fire, we will go to meet the last person capable of keeping them together.” 

With that, the taxi driver merged lanes, and turned off on the exit toward Hollywood.

* * *

Mickey stood outside the entrance to a hotel in Hollywood, her jaw clenched so hard her teeth began to ache. What would happen when she walked through the door? It felt like the entire weight of Los Angeles was pressed down on her shoulders. She made the decision to come here. It was the right one, Mickey knew that, but that didn’t make it any easier. 

She willed her feet to move, one step at a time, and came face to face with Skelter at the front door. Mickey wasn’t sure what kind of welcome she expected — she imagined many — but it certainly wasn’t: “Good to see you, sister.” 

That familiar mask of detached calm slid into place, her face a picture-perfect expression of practiced boredom. “You, too, Skelter,” the question she was desperate to ask was lodged someplace in her throat, but she found the courage, and cleared the syllables free, “is Nines alive?” 

“He’s inside. Motherfucker’s tellin’ some tall tales, sayin’ he wrestled a werewolf. You believe that shit?” 

Mickey swore time stopped. Gravity shifted. She wasn’t sure which way was up or down. Everything she thought she knew was wrong. She thought Nines was dead. She saw him go over the cliff, the werewolf right behind him. She survived out of sheer, dumb luck. She was ready to mourn him, ready to grieve properly once LaCroix met the Final Death at her hand, but now everything was different. 

Cracks in Mickey’s façade began to form, so she quickly said, “Just one? He got off easy.” 

Skelter snorted, “Pfft, yeah, whatever, and the Pope’s my ghoul. Get in there.” 

As Mickey entered the hotel lobby, she found the place mostly empty. She recognized a few familiar faces; Anarchs that frequented the Last Round. An elegantly tall, blonde woman stood near the front desk, talking animatedly with another, and she smiled brightly at Mickey as she walked by. With each step, Mickey felt her heart get lodged somewhere in her throat. What was she going to say when she saw him? Her mask of calculated boredom wouldn’t last, she knew that. Maybe she was tired of hiding behind her walls.

As she reached the next floor, she found Damsel guarding the door. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick, I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Damsel said, actually looking relieved to see Mickey in one piece. An odd feeling stirred in Mickey’s chest, something akin to a sense of belonging. 

“Gonna take more than a Blood Hunt and a couple werewolves to take me out,” Mickey said, a playful cockiness to her words.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Damsel exclaimed, “First Nines gets to kill a werewolf, now you? Ugh! Why does everyone get to kill a werewolf except me?” 

Mickey chuckled, her shoulders rising in a shrug, “I’m sure there’s a few still skulking around Griffith Park if you wanna try your luck.” 

“Nah, think I’d much rather kill LaCroix and all his other little corporate stooges right now,” Damsel said, the signature Brujah fire raging in her eyes. “Speakin’ of, you should head inside. Your puppy-dog eyes are about to make me puke.” 

Mickey bit back the retort that she was ready to fire back, a bark of laughter escaping her lips as she shook her head. She really didn’t feel like arguing with Damsel about the existence of these so called “puppy-dog eyes”, so she simply laughed and said, “Fuck off.” 

“Go on in. I’ll make sure no one interrupts,” Damsel said, “but man, I sure hope somebody tries!” 

For a moment, Mickey stood outside the door that separated her from Nines; the man she thought was dead. The man she realized she loved. With shaking hands, Mickey reached for the door and quietly stepped inside. 

When their gazes met from across the room, Mickey felt her knees go weak. 

Nines was perched up on one of the tables, his clothes torn and stained with blood. His face was torn, too; it looked like it was barely holding itself together. They were only a few feet apart, but it felt like miles. Any coherent thought Mickey had in her head flew right out the fucking window at the sight of him. Relief wasn’t a strong enough word for what she felt. 

Nines must’ve seen the look on her face; must’ve seen past the thinly held in place façade. His gaze softened, the Anarch leader allowing the briefest hints of vulnerability to shine through. 

“Hey,” Nines said, his gruff and quiet voice sounding like music to Mickey’s ears. 

“Hey, yourself,” Mickey replied, taking a hesitant step forward. The entire city of Los Angeles could have been burning to the ground right now and she wouldn’t have noticed.

Ever closer still, like two magnets destined to clash together. Mickey struggled to find her usual bluster, the mask of self-assured cockiness she wore when she wanted to feel in control. She recalled some of the first words Nines ever said to her, way back when he saved her from that pack of Sabbat. 

“You look like shit.” 

Nines chuckled, then winced, “Shit, don’t make me laugh, my face is barely holdin’ it together as it is.” 

“Rumor is you killed me,” he continued, his expression shifting into a somber one. Unnecessary breath hitched in Mickey’s throat at his words, but she said nothing and let him speak, “I knew you’d make it here in one piece. Hell, you got out of the park alive; that’s quite the feat.” 

A warmth curled in Mickey’s gut at the praise, her hand rubbing the back of her neck in a sheepish motion. “Yeah, well, that was mostly dumb luck.” 

Another step closer. Her hands ached to reach out and touch him, to make sure he was real. She took in the sight of him again, from the iciness of his eyes, the broadness of his shoulders, the muscles of his arms, his bloodstained and bruised hands. 

“Nines,” she sighed his name like a prayer, “I thought — I thought you were dead.” 

He finally reached for her then and she obliged, closing the distance between them. His hands, his bloodstained, bruised hands, rested on her hips. She gripped his forearms, her eyes cast downward. Damn the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks; she was supposed to be stronger than this. 

“Hey,” Nines said, voice softer than she ever heard it. This wasn’t the voice of the grizzled, Anarch leader. This was a voice of vulnerability, something he reserved for those he trusted, those he cared for. “Can’t say I got out without a scratch, but, I’m here, Mickey.” 

Stormy greys met icy blues. Her hands ghosted up his arms, to his shoulders, until she was cupping his face in her hands. His stubble gently scratched against the skin of her palms. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” Mickey continued. She had a habit of rambling when she was around him, she realized. As her mental walls came tumbling down, they were followed by a tidal wave of all the words she had been too afraid to say before, “I knew I needed to survive, but, after that, I don’t know. Was gonna kill LaCroix for what he did. Go out in a blaze of glory or something, I guess.” 

“You don’t have to do this alone, Mickey,” Nines said, “you have us. You have me.” 

LaCroix could have walked through the hotel lobby, handing himself over to surrender, and Mickey wouldn’t have cared. The only thing she cared about was how Nines’ mouth felt against hers. She surged forward, catching his lips in a kiss. The emotion behind the kiss startled even her. She tried to be gentle, tried to be careful of the wounds in his face, but even Nines seemed to not care about anything except the two of them in that moment. His arms circled her waist, his hands splayed against her lower back. One of Mickey’s hands cradled the back of his neck, her fingers combing through his short, cropped hair. 

Her teeth caught his lower lip and he groaned, opening his mouth for her. Her tongue slipped in, caressing his own. Mickey signed against him, his hands pressing against her spine, bringing her closer still. Mickey poured every ounce of emotion into her kisses, everything she couldn’t find the words to say; not yet anyway. Nines responded in kind, responding to her passion with vigor. For a moment, Mickey wondered if he was going to take her, right here and now on this table, but he pulled away with clear regret. 

“Now I think you  _ are _ tryin’ to kill me,” Nines mumbled, his forehead pressing against hers. 

“Sorry,” Mickey replied, not really sorry at all. She looked at him from under her lashes and for once, she didn’t shrink under the intensity of his gaze. 

“S’okay. Let’s just, y’know, save this for a more, uh, opportune time.” 

Mickey smirked, “I can think of plenty of opportune times.” 

Another chuckle rumbled in Nines’ chest. He brought a hand up from where it rested against the small of her back to her cheek, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone. 

“We made it out of Griffith Park, but someone clearly didn’t want us to,” he said, his brow furrowed in concentration. Mickey watched in real time as his own mask slid back into place; the mask belonging to the calculating Anarch leader, “We were set up and the list of suspects is short: LaCroix or Xiao.” 

“Both of ‘em were in on it,” Mickey explained, her words laced with venom, “they’ve been workin’ together this whole time. When I found out, LaCroix decided to kill two birds with one stone.” 

“What? The Kuei-jin and LaCroix?” Nines asked, incredulous. Anger of his own flashed in the depths of his eyes, “Even the Camarilla wouldn’t let that fly; he wanted an alliance with me because his other one failed.” 

It was all coming to a head now. A spark of revolution danced between the two of them, waiting to see who’d ignite it first. 

“That’s twice they’ve tried to have me killed. Not to mention how many times LaCroix sent you off on a mission hoping you’d finally bite the dust,” Nines continued, “and it’s not gonna end there, Mickey. It’s us or them. You got a preference?” 

That feline, predatory grin was back in full force as Mickey said, “Where should I start? 

“I’ve already sent troops to raise Hell over the city. The Kuei-jin think we’re busy with the Cam, so they won’t be expecting an attack. You know what’s gotta be done, right?” 

Mickey knew what needed to be done when she woke up that evening. Nines was right: it was us or them. This war wouldn’t stop until LaCroix and Xiao were nothing but stains of ash on the floor. When Nines looked in her eyes, he saw a storm of revolution, vengeance, and hope. 

“Xiao’s been in LA for too many nights. I’m gonna make tonight her last.” 

Nines nodded, his hands cradling Mickey’s face. Her hands gripped his wrists. She still had plenty to say to him, but she bit her tongue. Once the war was over, they would have plenty of time to talk — plenty of time for other things too. 

“Once you take care of Xiao, come back here. We can regroup and go after LaCroix tomorrow night.” 

It took every ounce of willpower for Mickey to pull away. Before she got too far, though, Nines caught her wrist. He pulled her to him, his lips finding hers again. It was a soft kiss, gentler than she was expecting. The kiss he might’ve given her in another life, if they’d been granted peace and time. 

“Would you listen if I asked you to be careful?” Nines asked, his voice as soft as the kiss he’d just given her. 

Mickey couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at the corners of her mouth, “I like risk. You know that.”

“You’re so certain.” 

Another cocky smirk, another lingering kiss. A low growl rumbled in Nines’ throat when Mickey pulled away this time. “Not fair.” 

“Proved my point, though.” 

Mickey finally moved away then, because she knew that the longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave. With a final wink and a mock salute, she headed out the doors, and into the night.


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terrified at the possibility of losing her, Nines realized just how much he cared about Mickey as the battle between Anarch and Camarilla forces came to a head in downtown Los Angeles.

It was nearly five in the morning by the time Mickey returned from Chinatown. 

In the hours she’d been gone, Nines pretended not to notice just how significant her absence felt. He busied himself with directing the shock troops and skirmishers; coordinating with Damsel about which Camarilla assets to target. With the majority of the Anarch forces fighting the Cam, it gave Mickey the opportunity to infiltrate Chinatown with the element of surprise. 

Nines just hoped that would be enough. 

They made significant ground against the Camarilla that night. The troops stuck to sudden, quick ambushes; not leaving the Camarilla time to recover and report back. Nines knew that they didn’t have the numbers for a full frontal assault, but that didn’t matter when they knew the city better than the Cam did. LA had been an Anarch Free State for as long as Nines had been around — he was determined to keep it that way. 

When Mickey finally returned, she stumbled out of the taxi, looking bruised and exhausted. Skelter had even been kind enough to give her a hand inside. The elder Gangrel shouldered her weight as he led her up the stairs, to which she then shook him off with a low grunt and a wave of her hand. She gave a nod toward Damsel, the den mother’s brows furrowed in clear concern. 

Nines had heard her coming and was there to open the door to let her inside. When she brushed past him, the scent of blood and gunpowder followed. She all but collapsed onto one of the chairs, her head tilted back, jaw clenched tight. She was in pain, Nines could tell, but he wasn’t sure the origin of it. He was sure if he asked, Mickey would have simply said “everywhere.” 

Instead, he knelt in front of her, his hands resting on her knees. He asked what she needed. At first, she shook her head, her eyes squeezed shut, a muttered “nothing” filling the space between them. He said her name, a soft reprimand. That was all it took. 

Mickey’s eyes flashed open, a pair of grey storm clouds. _You_ , she wanted to say, _always_ _you_. 

Her mouth didn’t want to cooperate, though. Her tongue felt heavy inside her mouth, the taste of copper lingering in the back of her throat. She began to shrug out of her jacket, a hiss of breath exhaling between her clenched teeth. 

“Help me with this.” 

Nines did as she said, guiding her arms out of the sleeves. He tossed the garment on a nearby chair, wincing slightly when he saw the state of her body. Her arms were covered in slash wounds, the cuts sharp and clean. He noticed a number of bullet holes, too, one namely on the back of her right shoulder. Mickey groaned as she leaned forward, attempting to untie the laces of her boots, but Nines beat her to it. Batting her hands away, he made quick work of the laces before pulling the shoes free, tossing them on the chair where her discarded jacket sat. 

First aid wouldn’t do anything to help — only a good day’s sleep would do that — but Nines could at least clean the wounds as best he could. He barked out an order to Damsel, asking for a handful of blood bags while he got to work. Gently, he helped Mickey out of the chair, and led her toward the bed that sat in the far corner of the room. From there, he grabbed a handful of towels, wetting a few of them in the sink. 

Nines positioned himself behind Mickey then and, without thinking, she leaned back against him, her back resting against his chest. He had to lean back a little as he began to clean the bullet wound on her shoulder. It had stopped bleeding for the most part, but the dried Vitae stained her skin. 

Mickey’s eyes fluttered closed, lost in the sensation of Nines’ hands on her back. 

“What happened?” Nines finally asked, breaking the comfortable silence between the two of them. 

“Xiao’s dead,” she replied, her voice thick with exhaustion, “I got the key.” 

The key to the Ankaran Sarcophagus. The key that Kindred all around Los Angeles were willing to lie, backstab, and kill each other over. When Mickey had held it in her hands, it felt so small, so insignificant. The key had been the cause of so much bloodshed, Mickey’s hands felt stained with it. LaCroix desperately wanted this key. He wanted the Ankaran Sarcophagus. That was enough motivation for Mickey to never let him have it. 

She remembered what Beckett said to her. He had been uncharacteristically panicked, which unnerved her. Beckett, the famous scholar and skeptic, warned her not to open the Ankaran Sarcophagus. Mickey didn’t know if she believed in Gehenna; that the Antediluvians would rise and devour all Kindred. Maybe she didn’t need to believe in world-shattering myths. What she did know, though, was that if LaCroix wanted the Sarcophagus open, she was going to do anything to keep it shut. 

Mickey was pulled out of her thoughts when Nines spoke again. 

“Thought I told you to be careful,” he said, but there was no anger behind his words. Exasperation, maybe, but no malice. 

“You should know by now that ‘careful’ ain’t in my vocabulary,” Mickey replied. Nines could hear the cockiness in her voice, could feel the smirk behind her words even if he couldn’t see it.

His hands ghosted over her shoulders, his fingers brushing her dark hair over her neck. A small shudder raced down Mickey’s spine at the gesture. He turned his attention to the cuts on her arms, the gentleness of his touch allowing a warmth to curl in Mickey’s gut. She desperately wanted to turn around to see his face, but instead, her head lulled back and rested against his shoulder. 

“Maybe it should be,” he said, his mouth a few inches above Mickey’s ear. Nines was acutely aware of their closeness, but he didn’t mind. Quite the opposite. Her body was relaxed against his, her smaller frame fitting against his almost perfectly. 

“Worked well enough for me so far.” 

“Until one day it doesn’t.” 

They lapsed back into comfortable silence then, Mickey mulling over his words. By the time Nines finished up, the clock on the bedside table said 6:04 AM. The sun would be rising over Los Angeles soon and the following night, they were going after LaCroix. 

It wasn’t going to be easy, they both knew that. Mickey was going to be in the most danger, but this was personal. She wanted to end LaCroix herself. A flutter of anxiety and anticipation surged in her gut. Nines shifted from behind her, sliding back toward the pillows. Without hesitation, Mickey followed. 

She curled up against his side, her head resting on Nines’ chest. His arm circled her shoulders and he held her close. His lips brushed against her temple and she nearly crumbled. 

Exhaustion pulled at her limbs, making her eyelids heavy. As day-sleep crept up on Mickey, she almost said those dangerous three words. They sat on her tongue, the letters and syllables ready to spill past her lips. But as the sun rose and morning blanketed Los Angeles, the words fell back down her throat in a cowardly retreat.

Night came soon enough and Mickey was pulled out from the blissful oblivion of day-sleep. As she sat up, she quickly looked over her injuries. The shallow cuts and bullet holes were healed up; no trace of them left on her unnaturally pale skin. Mickey could feel the ache of the Hunger in her gums. She would need to feed before heading back downtown and as if on cue, the Beast growled in anticipation of the events to come. 

Nines woke up soon after, his eyes opening to find Mickey perched on the edge of the bed. He reached a hand out, his fingertips ghosting down her spine, his touch feather-light and fleeting. As Mickey looked over her shoulder at him, Nines’ brow furrowed at the expression he caught. It was quick, a split-second of emotion that was soon swallowed up by the usual storminess of her expression. It pulled something in his gut and he had the desperate, selfish thought of asking her to stay.

They both knew she couldn’t do that, though. 

Instead, Mickey stood up, her back arching as she stretched her arms above her head. A low groan escaped past her lips as she relieved some of the tension in her muscles. She padded quietly over to her boots and jacket, pulling them on in quick motions. Mickey noticed a handful of blood bags left on a nearby table, presumably from Damsel, but the Beast nearly gagged at the sight of them. No, she’d need something with a little more sustenance tonight. 

She heard Nines approach, felt his arms circle around her waist as he stood behind her. Mickey wasn’t used to such casual intimacy; this closeness was alien to her. Usually she’d shrink away, but not this time. Nines had a habit of breaking all the rules she set in place for herself and she’d be lying if she said she had a problem with it. 

Mickey turned around to face him fully, her hands resting on his chest. 

“LaCroix’s goin’ down tonight,” she said, that unfamiliar conviction back in her voice. It didn’t matter the motive — because between Mickey and Nines, there was  _ plenty _ — what mattered was that the so-called Prince of Los Angeles wasn’t going to live to see another night.

Nines nodded in agreement, “S’not gonna be easy. That Sheriff of his is gonna be a problem, too. And I doubt LaCroix will let you just waltz inside.” 

“I know how to get in without being seen. Once I get in, then the really hard part begins.” 

Mickey could only guess how much security a Prince would have, not to mention all his little corporate Ventrue groupies who would do anything for their undying overlord. Nines was right, though, the Sheriff would be a problem. She could call on the Beast as a last resort, but that strategy was like playing with fire. She felt the Beast bare her fangs in response. 

“We’re gonna be down on the street, causin’ lots of problems for the Cam while you get LaCroix. We’ve only got one shot at this, so let’s do it smart; don’t be reckless.” 

It was Mickey’s nature to be reckless, but she nodded nonetheless, and saved Nines some exasperation. The ever-present Hunger burned in the back of Mickey’s throat, so she knew she needed to leave soon. Out and into a war zone the Kine had no idea about. 

Rising to the balls of her feet, Mickey quickly kissed Nines, her lips lingering against his for half a second before she retreated. She wasn’t one for heartfelt goodbyes, but before she went out the door, she said, “Be safe.” 

“You, too,” Nines said. He felt the ghost of her lips against his and again, that desperate, selfish thought entered his mind, but he bit his tongue. When this was all over, they had a lot to talk about, and Nines promised her that they  _ would _ talk about it. For now, though, he watched her go, a confident swing in her hips, and he was left with a storm cloud of emotions hanging over his head. 

* * *

Venture Tower was a mess of carnage, chaos, and blood. 

Ever since Mickey entered the building, she’d carved a path of destruction. LaCroix threw countless troops at her; a heavily armored private security team that behaved like a fucking tactical unit. Mickey used every trick she knew to take them down, from ambushing them from the shadows, to tearing them apart with her claws, to brutally feeding from them and draining the life source from their body. 

Anyone that tried to get in her path was cut down. Nothing and no one was going to stand in Mickey’s way as she slowly made her way to the penthouse. She wondered, idly, what the news would have to say about all of this, but she knew that Kindred had their hands in every facet of human society; there’d be a way to cover all this up. 

When she went up against the Sheriff, it took everything Mickey had in her to survive. The Beast was howling in her ears as Mickey was thrown out the window, shards of glass cutting into her face. There was a moment of weightlessness and Mickey used her momentum to twist her body, moving to land on her feet. Her claws dug into the roof, her boots skidding to a stop. She watched, horrified, as the Sheriff shapeshifted into some monstrous, bat-like creature. 

Because of- _ fucking _ -course he would. 

By the time Mickey managed to take him down, her ears were still ringing from the high-pitched screams the Sheriff would cry, and her Hunger was at a dangerous level. The power of the Blood surged in her veins, mixing with primal adrenaline. 

As Mickey entered Venture Tower again, she realized she was smiling. It was predatory, feline, and inhuman. Her fangs were visible, her lips cracked and stained with blood, and her eyes were wild. When she was outside LaCroix’s office, her boot collided with the door, and she kicked it right off its hinges. She approached the Prince, her boots leaving a trail of blood across his pristine marble floors. 

“Like sire, like childe,” LaCroix began, malice dripping from his words like poison, “I should have killed you that night. How could someone as low as you injure me? You think you’ve taken everything away, but I still have my sarcophagus!” 

After everything, LaCroix still believed he’d won. The predatory grin that donned Mickey’s face quickly turned into a snarl, her fangs bared; a promise and a threat. 

“And I have the key, motherfucker.” 

LaCroix laughed, his glee bordering on hysteria, “You’ve done all the work for me, once again! So much to learn. I thought I had lost it all, but no, here you’ve sailed on a Gehenna wind, bearing me my salvation — the key to my future.” 

“You want the key so bad? Come over here and take it, you long-winded, Euro-trash, prick.” She was goading him now, and she knew it, but she was reveling in it. The fact that he still believed he was in control, that he could bend her will and tell her what to do. Her days of being a pawn were over. 

He laughed again. 

“Give me the key.” 

Mickey felt the assault on her mind, his will trying to force itself inside. She imagined a pair of thick, iron doors, and slammed them shut in his face. 

“Fuck you.” 

LaCroix startled for a moment, his powers of domination pressing down against Mickey’s mind in full force now. No matter how hard he tried, she kept that imaginary door locked tight and her walls sky high. 

“I said:  _ give me the key _ !”

“Sit down, LaCroix.”

Mickey’s claws slashed across LaCroix’s throat, Vitae pouring down the front of him like a river. The assault caused him to hunch over, his hands going to his neck, and Mickey plunged her claws into his chest. She slammed her elbow down against his back causing him to crumble to the ground in a heap. A gargle of air loosened from his throat and LaCroix struggled to speak around his own Vitae that threatened to drown him. Mickey quickly dodged backward to avoid getting his Vitae on her boots. 

“It can’t end like this,” LaCroix said, his words punctured with mouthfuls of Vitae, “The Kuei-jin will kill us all! I-I can’t lose — I will open the sarcophagus; I’ll build an empire, it won’t end here!” 

Even with his life sourced bleeding out of him, LaCroix was still holding on to his delusions of grandeur. Mickey didn’t have an ounce of sympathy for him. She stood over the man who used her, over and over again, for his schemes and machinations. He saw her as a tool to be used and then discarded. The Beast reveled in the sight of the Prince on his knees; she wanted him to beg for a mercy she wouldn’t grant him. 

Mickey held the weight of the key in her hands. Beckett warned her not to open the sarcophagus. 

Whatever horrors lay in wait inside it, let LaCroix be the one who was devoured first. 

“You want the key?” Mickey asked before flinging it across the room, “Go fetch. Enjoy, LaCroix. A gift from the Anarchs.” 

She didn’t watch as LaCroix scrambled for the key. She was already out the door as he crawled his way toward it. 

“You fool!” LaCroix screamed at her back, “You had it in your grasp — you had Los Angeles in your hands — and you threw it all away! That’s why you’re not a leader, why you’ll never be anything but a little errand boy!” 

LaCroix’s desperate, crazed gaze landed on the Ankaran Sarcophagus. Muttering a promise to himself about building a new world order, he made his way to his prize. The key fit perfectly. LaCroix’s fangs extended in anticipation of discovering his sacrifice, but as he pushed the lid of the sarcophagus open, all he got was a coffin full of C4, a timer counting down from ten seconds, and a note reading: BOOM!

As LaCroix descended into hysterical laughter, the timer hit zero, and the explosives detonated.

* * *

The entire block shook as an explosion went off in Venture Tower.

Nines had joined the fight on the streets of downtown LA soon after Mickey left. It was good for morale for the other Anarchs to see him fighting the good fight, but he’d been itching to get back in the action anyway. The wound on his face from the werewolf wasn’t fully healed, but that wasn’t going to stop him. Besides, Nines couldn’t just sit in the safe house in Hollywood while a war waged outside his window; that just wasn’t in his nature. 

He played the role of Anarch leader well. He directed the troops where they needed to go, led skirmishes of his own around the back alleys of downtown; keeping his word to Mickey that he’d help keep the Camarilla busy. 

That was when he felt it. 

The whole city block shook as the explosion detonated. Plumes of smoke rose into the sky as debris fell onto the city streets. He felt the aftershock of the explosion deep in his chest and heard the sound of cascading glass. Alarms were blaring somewhere and it wouldn’t be long before the fire department and police were on the scene to assess the damage. 

His unbeating heart sank deep into his gut, panic and dread racing through his veins in equal measure. The explosion came from the penthouse, where LaCroix’s office was — where Mickey was supposed to be. 

“Jesus Christ, you see that shit?” Damsel exclaimed from his right, her gaze skyward. The fire was far enough away that the Kindred below didn’t flee in terror, but they all knew that whoever was in that building was toast. 

“The entire fuckin’ city saw that,” came Skelter’s sardonic reply. 

Nines was only half-listening, though. If his heart could still beat, it’d be pounding loudly in his ear drums. He didn’t want to think about the worst case scenario, but he couldn’t stop the thought as it entered his mind. 

_ What if Mickey had been caught in the blast? _

“We gotta find Mickey,” Damsel said, as though reading his thoughts. He turned his icy gaze towards her, expecting some sort of snarky remark, but found nothing but a fiery determination in her eyes, “she was up there, right? We gotta make sure she made it out before the cops show.” 

Nines nodded, finding his voice. There were no hints of his anxieties as he spoke, “Check all the alleyways that lead toward the Tower, you go east, I’ll take west. Skelter, get the boys off the streets.” 

His right-hands nodded, heading off to fulfill their orders. Nines harnessed his gifts of supernatural speed, flashing toward the wreckage of Venture Tower. He felt the Beast’s fangs scrape against the sides of his skull, its voice taunting him as it said: _ you’re too late. You lost her for good this time _ .

A low growl of warning rumbled in Nines’ chest. He didn’t want to entertain the thought of losing her, not when there was too much left unsaid between them. Damn it, if she was gone, he wouldn’t get the chance to say he  —

He loved her. He’d be a fool to try and deny it. He felt it ever since that first night she came stumbling into the Last Round. It had been growing under the surface, but he was always too busy or focused on other things to acknowledge it. It never felt like the right time to confront those feelings, not when Los Angeles was in chaos and he needed to focus his attention on driving the Camarilla out of LA. They had been dancing around each other, holding their cards close to their chests, but the attraction, the spark between the two of them, was undeniable. 

It was more than just love, Nines realized. There was admiration there, too. A little bit of exasperation. Fondness. Desire. Every time she kissed him, it left him wanting more. The effect Mickey had on him was dangerous, but it was intoxicating. Part of him wondered if he was getting soft, but that thought was quickly snuffed out. Nines cared deeply, passionately. He cared about the safety of the city, he cared about the Anarch cause, he cared about those who looked to him for leadership — even if he was bad at showing it sometimes — and he cared about Mickey, too. 

He just hoped to God he’d still be able to show her how much. 

Sirens blared loudly in the distance as Nines rounded another corner. The alleys that were usually occupied by the city’s homeless were vacant. Debris littered the ground and Nines had to navigate around a large chunk of Venture Tower to get across the length of the alleyway. The city’s press was going to be all over this come morning.

As Nines rounded another corner, that’s when he saw her. 

She was hunched over, her body leaning against the alley wall. Her clothes were stained with dried blood, as were her hands. Nines caught a glimpse of her face, fresh bruises and cuts replacing the ones from the night before. In typical Mickey fashion, she was hurt, but she was alive. 

In a blink, Nines was at her side. 

Mickey inhaled sharply at his sudden presence, not even realizing he found her here. She’d been lost in her thoughts, the Beast enjoying the end of a successful hunt, and taking a moment to gather her strength. When her startled gaze met his, any remaining composure Nines had went out the fucking window as he pressed her up against the wall and crushed his lips against hers. 

This kiss was wild, primal, a clash of tongues and teeth. Mickey felt the taste of blood, but didn’t care; didn’t care about anything that wasn’t the feeling of Nines’ hands roaming her body. He relished in the feel of her, her body reacting to his touch and reminding him that she was still here, that she was alright. 

He broke the kiss, his mouth trailing down her jaw to her neck. The sounds Mickey made as Nines kissed, nipped, marked the exposed skin of her throat sent a fire straight to the pit of his gut. 

A police car sped down the street, its siren blaring, and the noise was enough to knock the two Kindred back to their senses. Nines didn’t dare pull away from Mickey, though, not when she was so close. Her hair smelled like smoke, but her eyes danced like a pair of wildfires in the darkness. 

“What was that for?” Mickey asked, a slight rasp to her voice. Her hands were clinging to his shoulders as she balanced on the tips of her toes.

“Saw the explosion. Thought you were dead.” 

A parallel experience between the two of them; a moment of passion, shared during a reunion where one thought the other dead. Mickey knew what Nines must’ve felt — the anger, the guilt, the desperation, the relief — she understood. She gave Nines’ shoulders a comforting squeeze, another touch anchoring him to the fact that she was alive and safe. 

“I’m not. Think it’s safe to say LaCroix is, though.” 

That signature grin pulled at the corners of Mickey’s lips and Nines found himself grinning back. 

“We did it, Nines. We’re free.” 

A handful of Camarilla forces were sure to linger around LA, but Nines didn’t have the heart to tell her that. They’d be gone soon enough, that was for damn sure. With LaCroix out of the picture, the Camarilla lacked the foothold to cement control. The assassination of a Prince was sure to bring in a lot of heat; not to mention any possible retaliation from the Kuei-jin. Even with the Blood Hunt called off, Mickey was going to have a target on her back for the foreseeable future; she was going to have to lay low for a while. 

“You’re goddamn right we are,” Nines said, finding Mickey’s celebratory attitude infectious. Another police car sped by, followed by a firetruck. The neighborhood was going to be surrounded by Kine soon and they needed to leave before anyone could ask them any questions, “Come on. Let’s go home.” 

By the time the police began investigating the nearby wreckage, the two Kindred were safely inside the Last Round. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand here's chapter two!! apologies for the slight wait on this one, i had some computer problems, but now that those are fixed, we're back with your regularly scheduled mickey/nines content! 
> 
> thank you so much for taking the time to read my work! if you enjoyed it, please leave me a kudos or a comment letting me know what you thought! kudos encourage me to write faster and i always reply to comments 💘 stay tuned for the final chapter, things are about to get steamy 🔥😜 as always, a big thank you to my gf for giving this a once over! 
> 
> follow me on tumblr (chloefrazer) for more mickey-related content!


	3. chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’d been two weeks since the fall of the Ivory Tower in Los Angeles and Mickey, finally, had Nines all to herself for the night.

It had been about two weeks since the assassination of Prince Lacroix. The Camarilla was on the run, but a few stubborn pockets still lingered in Los Angeles. Even without their leader, they clung to the city like vermin, but those that attempted to stay paid for their stubbornness. Their assets and havens were targeted by the now dominating Anarch population and the Unbound were determined to send a message: the Camarilla were not welcome in their city.

With the war between Camarilla and Anarch forces winding down to a close, Los Angeles was returning to a relative state of normalcy. The Kine had no idea of the battles that were waged outside their doors under the cover of darkness, but the prolonged tension that had lingered in the air was starting to dissipate. The explosion at Venture Tower was enough to keep the Kine occupied for a while, at least. The news had speculated on the circumstances of the explosion; whether it was a freak accident or a premeditated attack. The Kindred that had control of the media made sure to keep the details of the events vague; not that they had much to go on in the way of specifics, either. 

The one person who had a firsthand account of the events that transpired was currently MIA. After assassinating Prince LaCroix and Ming Xiao, it was decided that it was best for Mickey to lay low for a while. With the newfound power and influence that Mickey now held, it was bound to draw some negative attention. In the events leading up to the Prince’s demise, Mickey had made quite the name for herself across the Kindred circles of Los Angeles; which was both good and bad. She had her fair share of enemies, but she hoped they had a good enough sense of self-preservation to stay the fuck away from her. 

She’d been holed up in some cushy hotel in Hollywood on behalf of Isaac Abrams. The two had gotten off to a rocky start, but when Mickey made her Anarch loyalties clear — and when she sweetened the deal by helping him with his little gargoyle problem — he was more than willing to offer her a temporary haven in his domain. 

Mickey had never stayed in a place so nice before. It was a little more bougie than she would have liked, but she wasn’t going to turn down a place that guaranteed her a little privacy. Only a handful of people knew she was here; Nines, Damsel, and Skelter namely. For the first time since Mickey had been Embraced, there wasn’t someone breathing down her neck, telling her what to do or where to go. The comforting isolation that Mickey desperately tried to cling to was back in her grasp. 

Pure, blissful, isolation. 

Once the heat died down, Mickey knew that she would have to return. Besides, she didn’t think she could just run away and hide anymore. It was strange; for once in her life, Mickey had a reason to stay put. It would have been easy to pack her bags and disappear into the night, never to be seen or heard from again. LaCroix wasn’t around to drag her back. Ever since that night she and Nines were attacked at Griffith Park, that little voice that urged her to pick flight over fight was quiet.

Whether she liked it or not, Mickey’s actions had consequences. By officially allying with the Anarchs and taking down LaCroix, her name carried significant weight within the movement. When she returned with Nines to the Last Round the night LaCroix became a pile of cinders, the Unbound that were gathered there looked at her with something like admiration. They actually _clapped_ for her. They didn’t know that the explosion wasn’t by Mickey’s hands — at least, not directly — but that didn’t seem to matter. Not when she came back alive and the Prince was dead. 

Leadership was a foreign concept to Mickey. The way the younger members of the Anarchs looked at her, Hell, the way they looked at Nines sometimes, was unnerving. She wasn’t used to her voice carrying the weight of authority; all she’d known was following someone else’s orders, but maybe it was high time that changed. 

She never liked being told what to do, anyway. 

The future was full of possibilities; possibilities Mickey hadn’t considered before. Before, she had only one goal: survive each night. Now, though, it was about more than just survival. It was about keeping Los Angeles free from those who wanted to control it, whether that be from the Camarilla, the Kuei-jin, or the Sabbat. It was about taking a stand for a cause that she believed in. It was about finding a group of people, learning to trust them, and discovering a sense of belonging. 

She wasn’t alone anymore and, in a strange turn of events, she actually liked it. 

The Anarchs of downtown had noticed her absence; one specific Anarch in particular. Two weeks since they had their little passionate reunion amongst the rubble and debris of Venture Tower. Two weeks since they realized the extent of their feelings for each other. Not that they’d been able to talk about those feelings yet, but Nines had promised her a long overdue conversation. 

Which was why she wasn’t exactly surprised when she found a text message from him that night as she woke up, wondering if he could swing by so they could talk. Mickey sent him a confirmation, something along the lines of not having anything but time lately, and he promised to be over soon. 

She decided to take advantage of the rather luxurious shower in the meantime, the hot water allowing her body a fleeting, false sense of warmth. For once, as Mickey cleaned and scrubbed at her body, she wasn’t washing off any dried blood from her skin. All of her wounds had healed up nicely, her body taking these two weeks to properly recuperate and knit itself together. For once, her Hunger was satiated, and the Beast didn’t have anything smart to say. 

After months of destruction, carnage, and death at every corner, Mickey finally felt clean; she felt  _ safe _ . 

She emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, hair still damp, wearing nothing but a charcoal colored, oversized t-shirt. The clock on the nightstand read 8:38 PM. Her nights had been rather monotonous these past two weeks. She rarely left the hotel and when she did, it was to feed, and she stuck to the neighborhood as best she could. Mickey liked the privacy, but she wasn’t quite used to the stagnancy; she’d always been on the move, so sitting in one space for too long was starting to make her antsy. 

When she heard a soft knock at her door, she had a gut feeling tonight was going to be anything but boring. 

Combing her fingers through her damp hair, Mickey opened the door, a grin already in place to greet the person she knew was on the other side, “Hey.” 

Their usual banter got lost somewhere in Nines’ throat as he took in the sight of her. Her legs, toned and bare, the curve of her shoulder that was left exposed, dark ink of a tattoo slightly visible along her chest. The grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth was anything but innocuous; it matched the flash of something mischievous in her eyes. 

He cleared his throat, his face a mask of barely-held-in-place neutrality. A quirk of his brow, followed by a nod of his chin, “Can I come in?” 

She bit back a chuckle at the formality, but stepped aside nonetheless. As she shut the door and Nines entered the room proper, he let out a low whistle. 

“Abrams really doesn’t hold back, does he?” 

Mickey barked out a laugh, “It’s… flashy,” her nose wrinkled slightly, but she shrugged, “but if he’s payin’, I’m not complain’. Besides, you can’t deny the view.” 

The view from the large, glass windows overlooked Hollywood, the city lights illuminating the night. Even though it was night, the city was still very much awake. Nines hummed in agreement, but turned his attention from the city back to Mickey. There were thousand things on his mind, a majority of them revolving around the woman who sat opposite him, making herself comfortable on the edge of a rather large, expensive looking desk. 

Another thought flashed through his mind revolving Mickey and that desk and he felt his composure struggle to slip. 

“So,” Mickey said, drawing the vowel out. She was leaning back, her hands braced behind her, and she tilted her head to the side, attempting to play coy, “you wanted to talk?” 

Nines nodded, the ghost of a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. Christ, she knew how to be distracting. He wondered if she was doing it on purpose and the answer to that was, yeah, most likely. He cleared his throat again, mustering up the words he needed to respond, “We got a lot to talk about.” 

“Oh? About what?” 

His eyes narrowed, an expression of playful exasperation, “Me. You. _Us._ ” 

Mickey was never good at words. Talking her way out of something was never her strategy. She was all hard edges; her words were sharp with a brutal honesty that kept people away. Articulation, too, was something that wasn’t in her wheelhouse. Taking her feelings, putting them into words that someone could understand — that wasn’t just a string of vulgar expletives — was hard. 

Her feelings about Nines, though, weren’t hard to understand, but they were at first. He had kept sticking up for her, saving her life multiple times, and she didn’t understand why. Then he came to her office that night, kissed her breathless, left her wanting more. What she couldn’t say in words, she made up for in action. Maybe she was too cowardly to say it out loud, but she could show him; show him how much he meant to her, how much she loved him. 

A notable shift in the air, like the calm before a storm; a spark before a wildfire. 

Mickey shifted her posture, moving to sit up right, her hands resting against her knees. She glanced at Nines from beneath her lashes, her fingers trailing up the apex of her thighs. She parted her knees slightly, her fingers catching the hem of her t-shirt. The smirk on her lips was coy, but the look in her eyes was anything but. 

“Do you wanna talk before,” she paused, taking the moment to whisk the t-shirt over her head. Tossed the garment at his feet, “or after?” 

The sight of her, then, was nearly enough to undo him. Whatever composure he had was taunt like a wire, threatening to snap at any moment. His icy gaze took in the sight of her, fully, as though burning the image of her into his mind. Her movements were languid, lazy, almost feline as she sat back on her elbows, one hand resting against her abdomen, fingertips ghosting against the waistline of her panties. Her touch, ghosting lower, a little gasp as her hand connected with damp cotton. The barest hint of pleasure, a spark to ignite the growing fire in her belly. All the while, her cold steel gaze was locked on his. 

A low growl rumbled in his chest, the sound like rolling thunder. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. Any coherent thought Nines had was out the door, now. He had only one thing on his mind: her. He stalked toward her, slowly, like a predator circling prey, though he knew she was anything but that. His gaze lingered on her hands, the feather-light movements of her fingers. Mickey reveled in the delicious sight of his hungry gaze, another gasp escaping past her parted lips as she added just a hint of pressure to her touch. 

“Take ‘em off.” 

“You first.” 

A raised eyebrow at her reply, the challenge in her retort loud and clear. They were playing a dangerous game, waiting to see whose composure would slip first. Nines had years to practice the art of patience, but Mickey was stubborn. She quirked an eyebrow right back, thumb hooking through the waistband, tugging at the fabric. Teasing, tantalizing, pulling at the strings of his resolve so that they threatened to snap. 

He moved slowly, stealthily, a glimmer of something wild shining in his gaze that he kept hooked on her. She rose from her elbows to meet him as he stood between her legs, her knees brushing against his thighs. Another low growl in his chest, another command of _off, now_. His voice, like gravel over glass, the burning intensity of his gaze, the feeling of his hands as they gripped the flesh of her thighs, was enough to send a wave of heat down her spine. 

Her hands — her bloodstained, ruinous hands — shook slightly as she moved to tug the blue button-up from his shoulders, his white undershirt close behind. Discarded on the floor along with her charcoal t-shirt, forgotten and unimportant. It was her turn to take in the sight of him, then, her teeth biting down on her lower lip. 

Her hands cupped the sides of Nines’ face in a poor attempt to hide their trembling. The past crept up on her, like an unseen knife sliding between her ribs. He’d seen the worst of her, seen her carve a path of carnage and destruction, seen her when she lost control and the Beast had its hooks in her. Broken, bloody, bruised; a mess of righteous anger and bitterness. Her hands that have maimed, killed, and tortured, cradling his face with a gentleness that was reserved just for him. 

Lost in her thoughts, her doubts, that wild look in her eyes dimmed, and her gaze was stuck somewhere over Nines’ shoulder.

“Mickey,” he muttered, another soft reprimand, “look at me.” 

Storm clouds, cold steel, gunmetal; he could get lost in the color of her eyes. A range of emotions raging through them. Words threatened to bubble over, so Mickey closed the distance between them, catching his mouth in a kiss, composure be damned. She sighed against his mouth, parting her lips for him. The doubts, the fears, all washed away like she washed the blood from her hands. The weight of his hands pressed against her hips, pulling her closer, and her legs hooked around his waist. 

His lips moved from her mouth, teeth nipping at the corner of her jaw, traveling down her neck. Her nails trailed down his spine, a pin-pricking sensation down the curve of his back. A low whine echoing in the back of her throat as Nines kissed the pulse-point of her throat; a nip from his teeth, a flick of his tongue to soothe the bite. 

“Nines,” a soft exhale of his name, a sound so sweet it could’ve been the last thing he heard and he would’ve died happy. Mickey wanted him, needed him, right here and now. Her hands slid inside the waistband of his jeans, skated around until she found the belt buckle. She made quick work of sliding the leather out of the metal loop, but before she could attempt to slide them off, Nines grabbed a hold of her wrists, catching her hands halfway through her task. 

He circled her wrists in a single fist, pushing her bound fingers against her abdomen. A quiet growl of frustration was swallowed up by Nines’ smirk against her mouth. He reared her back on the desk, the wooden surface cool against her skin, and her body reacted responsively. Her knees fell wide as he nestled in between her legs, icy eyes on hers as he pressed her hands above her head. She arched her back, taunt as a bow string as Nines trailed his free fingers down the length of her torso, brushing past her hip bone, before settling against the edge of her panties. 

“Thought I told you to take these off,” a smirk pressed into her neck, just below the shell of her ear. 

“You did.”

It was difficult for Mickey to sound defiant when she was on her back, her legs spread beneath the weight of him. Her hips bucked, begging for a little more friction. It was impossible for her to muster up her usual snarky retort, her bluster lost somewhere as he looked down at her, all dark intent, the edges of his gaze tinted with amusement. A sharp nip to the hollow of her throat, a scrape of his fangs against her skin that sent a white-hot current blooming across her chest. The power of the Blood surged in her veins; every touch, every kiss making her feel more  _ alive _ . 

“Left ‘em on, huh?” His head tilted to the side, a quiet  _ tsk _ , as he dipped his fingers below the cotton hem. He cupped the heat of her in his palm, and  _ fuck _ , her traitorous hips rolled again, “wanna leave them on now?” 

The words rushed out of Mickey before she could attempt to bite them back, “no,” her voice a whimper, a desperation for him clinging to every word, every syllable, every fucking letter, “take ‘em off.” 

Now it was Nines’ turn to tease. His gaze, hungry, pinned her in place. He could kill a man to see her the way she was now — swear he would. Desperate, muscles tensed, hands curled into tight fists under his grip. Her chest heaved with breath she didn’t need, her lower lip caught between her teeth. 

“How?” He asked, a smile in his voice. He pressed his palm tighter, “with my hands? My teeth?” 

A moan fell from Mickey’s lips that sounded more animal than human, “bite ‘em off if you want,” a shaky whine as he began to slowly scissor his fingers. He didn’t peg her to be so vocal, but he wasn’t about to complain, not when he relished in the sounds he could pull out of her with his touch alone. “I don’t care, just  _ take them off _ .”

A huff of laughter against her neck, but he wasn’t quite ready yet. His mouth left a trail down her throat, her chest, to the valley between her breasts. Lower still, as his thumb and fingers worked a sweet, wet tune. His mouth lowered to her breast and sucked, his tongue flicking against her nipple. A mewl echoed from the depths of Mickey’s throat, her hands itching, begging to touch him. He turned his attention to her other breast, still working her with his fingers, but never touching her where she wanted it most. 

“ _Fuck_ , Nines —” she cut herself off, dangerously close to saying the three words she’d been to cowardly to say before; swallowed them up with another breathless gasp of his name. They wouldn’t stay down, though. She felt them bubbling up again, persistent, desperate to be said. 

“— I,” interrupted by another moan as his thumb ghosted over her clit, a deliberate motion that nearly threatened to set her alight. She couldn’t stop the words now, not when any attempt at maintaining self-control was gone, “I love you.” 

When his fingers stilled their movements, she stifled another whine, suddenly worried that the moment between the two of them was now ruined.

But any lingering doubts were sucked up in a kiss that left Mickey light-headed and reeling. He sagged between the contours of her body, the three-word declaration audibly confirming she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. He broke the kiss, his forehead pressed against hers. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand from between her legs, moving to grip her hips. 

“I love you,” Nines said, voice barely above a whisper, and Mickey swore her unbeating heart _soared_. She kissed him again, his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw. He met her in kind and he felt the smile in each press of her lips against his skin, “and I’m not goin’ anywhere, you hear me?” 

Mickey nodded, but he wanted to hear her say it. A squeeze of her hips, a nip against her lower lip as she caught him in another kiss. The storm clouds cleared from her eyes, burnt away by the fire that smoldered in Nines’ gaze. 

“Yes, _yes_ , I hear you,” she mumbled against his mouth. Her hips rolled again, her body pressing against his, that desperation back in full force, “ _please_ — want you, want you inside me.” 

But Nines was feeling worshipful tonight; how could he not, when she sighed his name and it sounded like a prayer? He took his time, sucking, nipping, marking her skin until she was white-hot, electric, arching off the top of the desk. It was hypnotic the way he shadowed down her body until he was on his knees in front of her. Nines pulled her hips to the edge, his thumb hooking beneath the waistband of her panties, finally pulling the garment down her legs. In a swift movement, he hooked Mickey’s legs over his shoulders, his breath against her cunt.

The first swipe of his tongue set Mickey’s nerves on fire. 

Soft at first, barely-there caresses. Open mouth kisses that sent waves of pleasure down her spine to her toes. Just as the muscles in her thighs began to release their tension, he sucked her clit into his mouth, a startled cry of pleasure bubbling past her parted lips. Mickey’s neck ached to be thrown back so that her melody of ecstasy could be sung to the heavens, but she remained transfixed; mesmerized by the way Nines worked her with his tongue, rolling, flat and wide, twisting it around her clit, his mouth parting to suckle it gently. 

“Christ... _ fuck _ , Nines.”

Her fingers scraped against his scalp, the pad of her thumb digging into his temple. Nines hooked his palms around Mickey’s hips as she began to squirm, her thighs trembling around his head. Her cries increased in number and volume, like music to his fucking ears. Her toes curled against his back; her spine curved toward him as she chased the waves of heat that burned through her core. She tried to wait, tried to hold off until he was inside her, pushing deep, filling her up, but he was more stubborn.

Another swipe of his tongue before he took her in his mouth again, one long, endless suck, and she was coming,  _ coming _ — 

But Nines remained kneeling, feasting on her, his hand pinning her hips to the desk. Mickey wasn’t sure where one climax ended and the other began, but she went over the edge again. She was trembling, squirming from the overstimulation. A half-sob, half-moan echoing from her throat, a string of filthy curses following. Nines rose from the floor, leaving sloppy kisses along her thighs, up her chest, before returning his mouth to her. Mickey could taste herself on his tongue as she frantically reached for his belt. Her hands skinned the jeans off his hips, nails scratching against his skin.

Now, she wanted him  _ now _ .

She reached for him then, filled her palm with his cock, and bucked against him impatiently. 

“Easy, easy there, sweetheart,” the pet-name was punctured by a kiss to her jaw, joining her hands in their efforts to rid him of his last bits of clothing. 

“Want you,” she muttered, full of a wild, animalistic need. Her knees hooked around his waist, words muttered against his mouth, “against the fuckin’ wall.” 

Who was he to deny her anything? 

With a wicked grin, he hefted her in his arms, her legs locking around his middle. When her bare back hit the wall, his position shifted, his hands moving to grip her ass. Mickey snaked her arms around his shoulders, holding herself in place so she wouldn’t lose her balance. Her nails dug into his shoulders, scratching his skin; she wanted to claw at him until their souls were merged together. Nines’ mouth found hers again, the kiss open and deep, a clash of tongues and teeth. 

He shifted slightly, nudging her entrance, and Mickey dug her nails into his skin harder and growled. 

“ _ Fucking tease _ .”

His laugh reverberated against her throat, the sound skittering down her spine, and he slid in between her slick, hot folds, still tender from his tongue. 

Mickey could hardly breathe, hardly think, hardly string enough letters together to form words beyond where their bodies were joined. He waited, letting her adjust, and she reveled in the fucking feel of him. A fluttering of lashes as her eyes opened and she found him staring at her, the usual ice of his eyes replaced with blue fire. 

“Say it again,” he murmured against her mouth. Mickey knew what he meant. 

“I love you,” she sighed. 

Nines pulled out slightly, then thrust back in slow; agonizingly slow. 

“I love you,” she said again, breathless. 

He pulled out again, a slow thrust in. 

“I love you.” 

Faster, this time — harder. His hips like pistons and Mickey’s rolled in response. The sound of her back hitting the wall echoed each fast, hard thrust; her breathy cries accompanying the rhythmic tune. She grabbed the back of his neck, fingers dragging against his nape, returning her mouth to his.

Forged together, their bodies connected; a bond shaped from fire and iron. A connection so deep, so rich — their fates intertwined from the beginning. Mickey’s life had been taken away from her; she’d been left with nothing but a fierce bitterness rotting her from the inside out. Nines had seen it; seen the brutality she was capable of, the cold detachment that threatened to keep her from everything and everyone. 

He replaced that coldness with a warmth, a well-placed spark that threatened to set her ablaze. The walls she carefully constructed for herself were torn down; there was no mask to hide behind, no façade to cling to. 

Just him, her, and this unbreakable bond that burned as hot as the sun. 

Mickey felt her insides turn to white-hot mush, another climax building, threatening to consume her from the inside out. _Fuck, yes, baby, harder_ —

Nines kept up the hard, fast pace as he shifted his position slightly, one arm wrapping around the small of her back, mouth against her neck. His free hand moved between her legs again, his thumb circling her clit. A scrape of his fangs against her throat, an undisputed gesture of trust. A silent plea, asking for permission, and Mickey compiled.

She moaned a _yes_ as she tilted her head to the side, giving him more access. When Nines’ fangs pierced the skin of her throat, the pleasure of the Kiss was enough to send her over the edge again. She nearly crumbled as release tore through her body and he pounded into her, hard and fast, drawing out her pleasure as he tasted her Vitae on his tongue. She tasted like smoke and nectar, like passion and midnight — she tasted like hope. 

Nines groaned into her neck as he found his own release, slamming in to the hilt, his hips stuttering. He steadied himself, careful not to lose his balance, his weight sagging against her. With a languid lick of his tongue against her throat, the puncture wounds of his fangs closed almost instantly. With a heartbreaking gentleness, he pulled himself from her, then carried her over to the bed. 

He nestled against the pillows, the too-soft mattress against his back, and rested Mickey on top of him. She straddled his waist as she looked at him from under her lashes, a lazy, feline smile tugging at the corners of her lips. The night was still young, she noted, and she had him all to herself. 

The ghost of his fingers trailed up her and down her spine as she leaned down, kissing him again slowly, gently, caressing her tongue against his lower lip. 

“I love you,” he said against her mouth, his hand moving from her spine to brush her dark hair behind her ear. 

“Me, too.”

He tasted the truth on her tongue as she kissed him again. The words Nines said earlier echoing in her mind, strong and bright like the bond between them:  _ Me. You. Us. _

And as she made love to him again, slow and sweet into the early hours of the morning, she knew she wasn’t going anywhere, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaand that's the final chapter! it is, without a doubt, the most explicit thing i've ever written 😳😳
> 
> in any case, i do hope you enjoyed this chapter and this little fic as a whole!! thank you so much for reading, do leave me a kudos or a comment letting me know what you thought! i always reply to comments 💕💕 also, thank you again for my gf for giving this a once over!! 
> 
> this isn't the end of mickey/nines fic adventures, so stay tuned for any further installments to this little series!! follow me on tumblr (chloefrazer) for more mickey-related content!

**Author's Note:**

> and i said i am going to write something that is so self-indulgent... 🥺🥺
> 
> thank you for taking the time to read my work! i'm very excited to work on this little mini-fic revolving around the ending events of the game, realizations of love, and as much tooth-aching fluff as two vampires can muster. i hope to update with chapter two soon, so keep an eye out for that! as always, do let me know what you thought if you enjoyed, i always reply to comments! 💕 as always, a big thank you to my gf for giving this a once over!


End file.
